Charms and Chocolate Chips: A Magical Bakery Mystery (14 page)

“Oh, no. Do we know who owns it?”

“Looks like a rental.”

For some reason that made me feel better.

“Mary Jane, maybe you could drive Katie home? Lucy and I can come pick you up after we close the Honeybee at five.”

My mother stepped in and said quietly, “Of course. I’d love to see your house, sweetie.”

“There you go,” Ben said. “Go spend some time with your mom. Show her the carriage house and all that you’ve done with the yard.” He hurried over to the register to help my aunt.

I sighed and looked at Mama. “I guess you’re stuck with me.”

She smiled a worried smile. “Ben is right. We’ll go to your house, have a nice cup of tea and a chat.”

“Hang on,” I said. “I’ll be right back.”

She turned back to the dishwasher, and I went into the office. I retrieved my tote bag and then quickly turned on the computer screen. One quick online search later and I was ready to go. Together we wended our way through the customers crowding the Honeybee. No one seemed to be in much of a hurry, and Ben and Lucy had everything under control. They both waved as we left but didn’t break away from what they were doing.

Out on the sidewalk, Mama held out her hand. Reluctantly I gave her my keys. Carefully looking both ways, we crossed the street. A uniformed woman with a camera was snapping picture after picture.

She lowered the camera when we approached. “You the owner of the Volkswagen?” she asked.

I nodded.

“Just finished up with it. All yours.”

“Thank you.”

I stood on the sidewalk, surveying the damage, hands on my hips. What I saw shook me. It could have been worse—really, it could have. In fact, it probably should have been worse, given the velocity with which the big white SUV had been coming at us.

Ben was right: The damage to my car was minimal. But the red Corolla in front of it was another story. The driver’s side door had been pushed halfway into the seating compartment. The front quarter panel was crumpled and bowed, the bent metal jammed right up against the tire. The hood was open, and a faint hissing sound emanated from the radiator.

Push or no push, if Wren and I hadn’t gotten out of the way, we’d be dead.

My mother was watching me. “You saved your friend’s life, you know. Shoving her out of the way. And . . . well, you know.” She got in and pulled the door closed. I went around to the other side, fuming at the SUV driver.

It seemed more useful to be angry than afraid.

“Mama?” I said. “What do you think about making a little side trip before we go home? Frankly, I’m way too jazzed up for a cup of tea and a sit-down just yet.”

She turned the key, and the engine coughed, then roared to life. The radio blared classic Southern rock, and I reached over to turn it off. “What did you have in mind?” she asked.

“I want to stop by the dentist’s office and make an appointment.”

The look she gave me was skeptical at best. “Why not simply call?”

“It would be better to go in person.”

“Katie. Even I know better than that. What are you up to?”

Unsure of how she’d react if I told her, I nonetheless opted for honesty. “The dentist I want to go see is named Skip Thorsen. He’s Autumn Boles’ ex-husband.”

“Autumn is the woman who was killed?”

Good heavens. My mother had just arrived in town and had already witnessed either a freak accident or someone trying to kill her daughter. Add to that she found same daughter involved in a murder investigation, however peripherally.

“Right,” I said. “You really are taking all this rather well.”

“I’m not, really. But I’m doing my best to fake it.”

I laughed, and she smiled in return. I had to give her a lot of credit for trying so hard.

“So I want to go by his office and see if I can get a hit off him.”

“A hit.”

“You know. A feeling.”

“You can do that?”

I shrugged. “Sometimes. It’s not consistent or . . . clear most of the time.” I thought of Hunter Normandy and how he’d felt so flavorless to me. Now I had to wonder if that had to do with his job as an embalmer. I could understand why he might wall his psyche away, whether consciously or unconsciously, from the work of preparing the dead for the next step on their spiritual journey. However honorable it might be, sometimes it had to be hard. Nonetheless, I couldn’t be sure that was why he seemed like such a blank to me. And what about the way the two different origami bats had felt? I had no idea what to do with that.

“It would also be good to know whether or not Skip Thorsen was in his office all day,” I said. “Or if he left for a while this afternoon. Like an hour or so ago. And I wouldn’t mind knowing what he drives.”

She stared at me. “You mean like a white SUV?”

Slowly, I nodded.

Mama put the car into gear. “Where’s his office?”

I pulled out the printout I’d made before we left the bakery and began reading off directions.

My mother was quiet as she drove my Volkswagen, merely nodding her understanding of the directions to Skip Thorsen’s dental office. Downshifting, she turned left on Whitaker Street and headed out of the historic district toward Midtown. My guess was that she was still upset about witnessing my instinctive move to protect Wren and myself with magic. Or maybe it was witnessing her daughter’s actual power after trying to deny it my whole life.

I debated what to say, finally settling on, “When was the last time you practiced?”

She didn’t answer at first, and I wondered whether she regretted her impulsive trip to Savannah even if it was at Nonna’s urging.

Nonna
. I wondered why she hadn’t shown up to warn me like she had when I’d been in danger before.

“The last time I cast, it was a garden spell to heal blossom end rot on some tomatoes your father planted,” my mother finally said. “Our next-door neighbor, Mr. Osborn, saw me, and even though what I did was subtle—spraying a healing tea of bay and lavender and burying moss agates near the base of the plants—a few nights later he caught your grandmother performing a fertility spell.”

“Lucy told me that story,” I said.

“Did she tell you our mother was naked as a jaybird?”

“She was . . .
what
?”

My mother grinned. “Oh, yes. Your nonna practiced old school.”

I giggled for the second time that day. “Old Mr. Osborn must have been downright scandalized.”

The smile dropped from her face. “All of Fillmore was scandalized. Small town like that, news travels fast. There was a meeting at the city hall, and they even talked about arresting your grandmother for public indecency. But it was the incantation that really set things off. She was ostracized, ridiculed, and you can bet everyone looked at us sideways as well.”

“I had no idea,” I said quietly. “It must have been awful.”

“It was a conservative little town,” she said, turning right at a stop sign when I pointed. “Still is. Your dad and I talked about moving, starting fresh, but it was my home and I didn’t really want to. Mother completely refused to be bullied out of town, and I couldn’t leave her there alone. Your dad said to ride it out, that people would forget. I don’t know if they ever did. Your nonna was considered a crazy old witch until the day she died a few years later, but people seemed okay with Skylar and me.” She looked over at me, then back at the road. “And you. I wasn’t going to risk that. I thought we did the right thing, not telling you about your abilities.”

“That’s it,” I said. “On the right.”

She pulled to the curb a half block past the address I pointed out and shut off the engine. Turning to face me, she said, “I don’t know that it was right, especially given the degree of ability you possess. If I was wrong, I’m sorry. I never, ever wanted to hurt you or cause you unhappiness. I was just doing the best I could.”

My throat worked, so tight I couldn’t speak. I didn’t know what to say anyway. “Oh, Mama,” I finally managed.

She blinked away tears and reached over to give me an awkward hug. Clearing her throat, she said, “Enough drama. Let’s go see a dentist.”

•   •   •

Dr. Thorsen’s practice was in a building that also housed a real estate agent, a CPA, an orthopedist, and a dermatologist. A sterile hallway led to a closed door with a melamine placard on it. I pushed the handle down and went in, Mama on my heels.

The waiting room held six chairs upholstered in tough, dark-colored fabric, two small tables displaying neat stacks of magazines, and a large marine tank full of brightly colored fish. Recessed lighting shone down from above, a cool light that didn’t make up for the lack of windows. In one corner a pile of plush pillows was surrounded by toys ranging from building blocks to a cast metal fire engine to handheld electronic games. A reception counter ran along one wall. Behind it, shelves of charts and files stood at attention, and a closed door no doubt led into the inner sanctum of reclining chairs, drills, spit sinks, and all the rest.

The waiting room was completely empty, as was reception, but I could hear the sound of quick keyboard strokes from around the corner.

I rang the bell on the desk. Moments later a petite woman leaned around the partition. Her blue-black hair was gathered into a bun high on her head, and she peered at me over a pair of zebra-striped reading glasses. “May I help you?”

“I’d like to make an appointment with Dr. Thorsen,” I said.

“I’m sorry. He’s not seeing any patients for a few—”

“The doctor isn’t taking any new patients,” interrupted another woman as she joined her. The newcomer was older, with a mannish chin and an assured demeanor. Her name tag said
CHARLY
.

“So he’s not in?”

“Not today,” Charly said. The bespectacled receptionist faded back, and I heard the typing begin again.

“That’s too bad.” I took a leap. “How is Skip doing?”

Her expression softened. “You’re a friend?”

For some reason I didn’t want to lie, which was funny because I was usually pretty good at it when I needed to be. So I simply smiled and said, “I’ll track him down.” That wasn’t a lie, either, not if I could help it.

“All right,” she said.

“Thanks anyway,” I said, and then to Mama, “Let’s go.”

We had turned to leave when Charly said, “If you’re really his friend, maybe you can help. He’s not doing well at all since her death.”

“Poor Autumn,” my mother said.

I kept the surprise off my face, but it wasn’t easy.

Charly grimaced. “Tragic, wasn’t it? Skip has cancelled all his appointments for the next few days.” She hesitated, then plunged on. “He appears hell-bent on spending all his time at the Old Familiar.”

“Oh, no,” I said.

“Thanks for letting us know,” Mama said.

Outside, she asked, “Is the Old Familiar what I think it is?”

I nodded confirmation. “It’s a bar.”

“Uh-oh.”

We began walking. I looked up and down the street but didn’t see anything like the vehicle that had nearly killed Wren and me. It had to have been pretty smashed up, too, and whoever had been behind the wheel was unlikely to just leave it in his usual parking spot.

“The driver of the SUV could have been drinking,” I said. “Might explain a lot, actually. I mean, it was very sudden, but I didn’t feel any blatant malevolence from the inside of the vehicle. On the other hand, I could have missed it. There was a lot going on at once.”

“Blatant malevolence,” she repeated.

“I wonder if he’s at the Old Familiar now—and if so, whether he was there earlier this afternoon.”

We’d reached the Bug, and Mama unlocked it. Fingers on the door handle, she said, “Well, I for one could use a drink.”

I blinked. “Well, okay then.”

•   •   •

The Old Familiar was a takeoff on an English pub except for the menu, which was distinctly Southern. Along with your ale, stout, or porter, you could snack on boiled peanuts or chow down on a full Low Country boil complete with spicy shrimp, corn on the cob, sausages, and red potatoes. As we approached, the smell of garlic, onions, vinegar, and beer seeped out around the door.

We stood just inside, blinking against the sudden dimness after the bright sunshine. The space was small, with only enough room for thirty or so people if some were willing to stand. Six dark wooden booths lined the wall to the left, and a heavy mahogany bar curved along the wall opposite, studded with tall stools and complete with a brass railing to rest your feet on. A mirror behind glass shelves reflected glittering bottles of liquor and their colorful contents. Rockabilly played over the sound system.

On a Monday afternoon there were few customers and one bartender to tend to them. A couple sat in the booth farthest from the entrance, jammed together on one hard bench and completely immersed in each other. A large man with a magnificent head of blond hair sat slumped at one end of the bar with a pint of something dark in front of him. He didn’t look around, either, but if anyone in the place was Dr. Skip Thorsen, it was him.

I wiggled onto the bar stool one seat away, and Mama sat on the other side of me. Her tweed suit was out of place in the joint, but at least she didn’t look like a tourist. The big guy’s gaze wandered over to my bright green high-tops and stayed there, his eyes bleary and red-rimmed.

Yeah. This was the guy.

The bartender, short and caramel-skinned, came toward us, swishing a towel over the counter more from habit than a need to clean up. “Getchoo?”

“I beg your pardon,” my mother said.

“What. Can. I. Get. You?” he repeated.

“There’s no need to be sarcastic. I’ll have a glass of your house Cabernet Sauvignon, please.” Proper, cosmopolitan Mary Jane Lightfoot. Never mind that she had been born and bred in a town of fewer than six hundred people.

“I’ll have a Guinness,” I said. On top of the adrenaline that had recently whipped through my vitals, I hadn’t eaten any lunch. Something substantial was in order. “And some buttermilk hush puppies and fried green tomatoes if the kitchen’s open.”

“Sure,” he said, writing down the order and taking it through a door to the back.

I heard a pan clang from the other side of the wall. The bartender returned and poured our drinks. My mother’s nose wrinkled after her first sip of wine, but she didn’t say anything. We made small talk about the bakery and her plans for the bake sale until our food came, then dug in.

The fried green tomatoes crunched when I bit through the crispy coating, their sour flavor combining perfectly with the sweet cornmeal and garlic aioli dip. Suddenly I wasn’t just hungry; I was ravenous. I plowed through my portion and started in on the hush puppies—tangy with buttermilk and rich with onion and whole kernels of corn, crisp on the outside and fluffy tender inside.

Mama nibbled on one of each but urged the rest on me.

I took her up on the offer, eating until only crumbs remained and two inches of Guinness were left in my glass. If I’d felt okay before, I felt pretty darn good now. The guy two seats down watched my snarf fest with mild interest.

“Say, aren’t you Skip Thorsen?” I asked pretty much out of the blue.

The big blond guy’s head snapped up. “What’s it to you?”

I widened my eyes. “Nothing. Gosh. Sorry.”

He took a sip from the pint glass. At least he wasn’t pounding it back. “No. I’m sorry. You’re a patient? I’m sorry I don’t remember you.”

Shaking my head, I said, “Not at all. I work at Georgia Wild, with Autumn.”

His eyes filled. “Autumn’s dead,” he said. Grief flowed off the poor man, so raw that it was hard to be in the same room with him. But I’d asked for this, and I’d see it through. I felt rather than heard Mama slip off the stool next to me.

“I know. I’m so sorry. You must have loved her very much.”

He barked a humorless laugh. “Oh, I did. Still do, for that matter. Doesn’t matter whether she divorced me or is gone, I still feel the same.” It was obvious he’d been drinking, but he wasn’t sloppy, only very open to conversation. There would be no need to use my Voice.

Not that I would have anyway, of course.

I felt bad taking advantage of the situation. On the other hand, love was a powerful emotion, and complicated. It wouldn’t have been the first time someone had been killed because they rejected someone who loved them.

“I heard about your divorce,” I said.

“Her idea, not mine. Kept trying to get back together, but she wasn’t having any of it.” He wove a little on the stool, then took another pull at his beer.

“The situation at Fagen Swamp must have been a sticking point between you.”

He looked confused. “What the blazes is Fagen Swamp?”

“It’s the land Heinrich Dawes and his group of investors are buying to turn into a golf course.”

The confusion stayed right where it was. “What does that have to do with Autumn?”

Now I was puzzled. “She—through Georgia Wild—was trying to save that land. It’s habitat to a huge number of species of animals and plants.” No need to go into the whole maroon bat thing.

His face cleared. “I didn’t know she had any interest in that land at all. I hadn’t talked to her for months. She blocked my calls.” The tears welled again, but he blinked them away. “God. I wanted to invest in that stupid project. I wonder if she knew.”

“I don’t think she did,” I said truthfully. “So you’re part of the investment group?”

“Nuh-uh. I didn’t have the money. Though now I do—or will.” He rubbed both hands over his face, the very picture of defeat and sadness. “But I’m not going to spend that money.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t want it. When the check comes, I’m giving it all away.” He slumped down, elbows on the bar, and stared at the bottles on the shelves. “Giving it all away.”

Mama slid back onto her stool. “Something is buzzing in your bag.”

“Oh! My phone. Excuse me,” I said.

Skip waved his hand absently in the air.

It was Margie. What the heck?

“Hi there,” I said into the phone.

My next-door neighbor spoke so fast her words tumbled over one another, making it hard to understand her. “Oh, thank goodness you answered. I’ve tried everything I can think of, but I don’t have a key to your house and you lock everything down so tightly I couldn’t figure out a way to get in.”

My heart beat faster. “Slow down, slow down. Now what happened?”

“I don’t know what’s wrong!” Margie almost wailed. “He just keeps howling.”

Fear stabbed through me. “Mungo?”

“Yes! It’s been over an hour, and he won’t hush. I’m sure something’s wrong, but I can’t see him through the window. He sounds like he’s right by the door.”

Slapping a bill on the bar, I said, “Thanks for calling. I’m on my way.”